


Òhreinn

by KeithKoenar



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Denial of Feelings, Domestic Violence, Family Issues, Forbidden Love, Gay, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, M/M, Mind Games, Multi, Power Dynamics, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Sibling Incest, Slash, Slavery, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Vikings, Whipping, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13602252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeithKoenar/pseuds/KeithKoenar
Summary: It was when Ivar broke one of those sacred rules of his that all alarm bells set off in Ubbe's mind. Never call a pet by its name. This slave though, with the mysterious curves and softness to his hands, is too compelling. The pull and push between brothers begins, to their own demise. At first no one sees, of course, but sooner or later this will be disgrace.As queen of Kattegat, nothing escapes Aslaug.As Ragnar's first born, Björn smells opportunity.And Ivar? All Ivar seeks is to be a God of his own making.Ubbe is merely trying not to drown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah well I don't know. Any comments are appreciated, I might have fucked up the timeline somewhere in there! Also not necessarily following the whole vikings series.

It was a foreign slave that made Ubbe suspect first. A gift they had brought their brother, some kind of twisted peace offering to keep Ivar occupied. Usually, it would have lasted two weeks, three at most, until Ivar grew tired of it like a child grew tired of its most recent toy, but not this boy.

It was when Ivar broke one of those sacred rules of his that all alarm bells set off in Ubbe's mind. Never call a pet by its name.

Safi sure was a novel word in Ivar's mouth.

* * *

 

 

"What does it signify? Your name."

There is malicious intent in Ivar's eyes, the way he carries himself. Safi moves about with excessive care as he always did, as to not upset his newest master, when he rubbed strange oils into his feet. He may have been young but old enough to understand when not to attract a reckless mans wrath for no reason.

His delicate fingers worked the knots out of Ivar' shine cautiously.

"Pure, my lord," he answers absently. The wild heathen's language was still broken and clumsy in his mouth, but prince Ivar was a cunning man and master of the enligh language. That Safi knew well enough. He had served english men back home.

The prince hummed, pleased. Perhaps it was for the gentle ministrations of Safi's hands on his dry skin, perhaps out of approval, Safi had learned not to question too much. Ivar made little sense to him, or to anybody for that matter.

"Is it because you are an eunuch?"

The question did little to shock Safi, though there was a mocking tone to it. It was when Ivar caught the silk of his collar between two fingers that Safi held his breath. It was the only garment that had survived the travel overseas, dark red and exotic, and Safi wore it with pride. It had been made for him, hugging his sleek silhouette.

Ivar watched dark lashes as they fluttered up with a pleased grin.

"Would that please you, to know you lay with someone that is not entirely man?"

The face contorts, anger surges, and Ivar backhands Safi so hard this one flies back. Over the echo ringing in his left ear, Safi hears a sole command.

"Take your clothes off."

Safi does as he has so many times before.  
  


* * *

 

Ubbe certainly understands the appeal. The boy is soft around the edges, with supple skin and broad delicate eyes like pits of tar and Ivar is not the only to fall to his exotic charm. When the men have had a drink too much and inhibitions have long since been sacrificed to the gods, a few hands shoot out to grapple at Safi, roaring laughs at his terrified eyes.

They seek out Ivar. Ivar who sneers and pats the spot next to him, and without hesitation the slave boy hurries to his side, holding the jug of ale tightly to his body.

"Sit," Ubbe hears his cripple brother growl, and suspects a cup of ale too much too.

The boy obeys. Had Aslaug still been there for the festivities, she might have shot a disaproving look. Slaves do not sit at the same table as their masters. When Ubbe catches Ivar's possessive hand on Safir's thigh, his mothers words turn to ashes in his mouth.

How hard it is to admit, irritation replaces them, grating the back of his head until Ubbe snaps, sets Hvitserk's abundant cup of ale in front of the boy.

"If you make him sit at our table, at least make him drink, Ivar," he snaps.

Ivar grins, full of theeth and manic mischief. His slave is turned to him with hesitation in the slump of his shoulders, awaiting. "Drink," he orders.

As always Safi does as he is told, under their watchful gaze. It is especially effortless to read Ubbe's hooded impatience tonight, under the excited flickering of the candles, and Ivar revels in the fact his brother is only an inch from losing control. The hunger that etches his face is not unlike the one Ivar saw in their father's at times.

The voracity of a starved Lothbrock.

When Safi drains his cup and Ivar sends him on his way to attend to slave duties again, he leans over to his brother with danger at the edge of his shoulders.

"You can't have him," he hisses, "Not now, nor ever."

Maybe it is not him I want, Ubbe almost answers, but even all the cups of ale in the world could not compel him to admit that.  
  


* * *

 

"Òhreinn."

"Òhreinn," Safi repeats, the word clumsy in his mouth, the r rolling around his tongue.

"Yes. Like water you can not drink."

When Safi smiles, there is not an ounce of deceit. "Is that my new name?"

He had taken to doing that lately, quit-witted jokes that only they could understand, scratching the surface of Ivar's being. It is a welcome boldness, that melts the hesitation away under Ivar's burning hands, when he beds the boy in the safety of the night. Ivar touches Safi's cheek.

"If you want," he answers, lost to the way Fari leans into the touch.  
  


* * *

 

 

At first no one sees, of course, except for Ubbe's jealous eye. But as queen of Kattegat, nothing escapes Aslaug. There is barely hidden disdain in her whole being when Safi is around dilligently attending to chores, and she is dilligently waiting for a reason to chase this poisonous boy from the hearth of her home.

When she slaps Safi one day for dropping a candle, the boy does not protest, but it is Ivar's snarl that fills the room.

"He has possessed you!" Aslaug claims in a flurry of rage, immediately clasps a hand over her mouth.

The slaves pretend not to have heard, scutter to get out of their masters feud discreetly, none of them courageous enough to nudge at a dazed Safi. Ubbe ushers over to the boy on the ground, grip tight on his arm. Wide and open innocence, pits of tar snap on him.

"Go," he presses.

Ivar is breathing heavily, a beast even Aslaug trembles in front. "Don't touch my slave," he growls.

"Ivar," Ubbe warns.

"No!" Ivar bellows. "He is not hers to touch, he is mine and mine only!"

"Have you gone mad?" Aslaug is crying now. Ubbe would almost say it was for her son, but he knew better. A little while longer and the others would see. "A weakness for a heathen slave, a male one at that, what do you think the men will think of you."

"They say nothing to Sigurd."

"Sigurd is no cripple."

"Shut up Ubbe! You are no better than him! You are no better than me."

It is when he does not protest Ubbe knows he is breaking his mothers heart. Her sons, the sons of the great Ragnar Lothbrock, divided and lost. Ubbe suspects Aslaug is unaware of the extent of it.

"Get rid of him at once," she says, though no one distinguishes at who it is directed at anymore.

 

* * *

 

"She can not do this."

"She is the queen. Of course she can."

"She is our mother."

That is the point, Ubbe wants to answer, but his throat is all parched dry.

Safi's cries fill the market places, until they stop and only the snap of the whip resounds.

 

* * *

 

 

"I won't let it happen again."

Safi's eyes are glassy, lost to a far away place he had once called home. He does not even flinch when a hand lays on his bruised shoulder.

"Ivar?"

"I am not Ivar."

"Ubbe?"

Ubbe freezes. The boy calls his name with the same urgency he calls his other master with and Ubbe is compelled to ask himself if he had really been that transparent. He pushes the thought down, hushes the boy until this one feigns to fall asleep, slipping away into a painful daze.

Ivar observes the scene from the open doorway, storming eyes calculating.

 

* * *

 

 

Safi is there between them, graceful and pliable under Ubbe's mouth, small sounds escaping him. He has capable hands that give the sweet illusion they have not been well trained at this and Ubbe falls for it, at least for the moment. Ivar must be desperate for allies to grant him to do this, let him have the slave when only months before he had sworn the contrary. It is worlds apart from sharing Margreth, this symbiotic friction of bodies pushes the limits even for them, the great Vikings, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrock. 

Ubbe catches his brothers electric eye. Ivar's burning wrath. Ivar's calloused hands, the crook of his elbow, the expand of his exposed neck. Ivar's barriers, foolish excuses, invisible walls in the form of an exotic boy, crumbling under Ubbe's grunts. Ivar's tensed jaw, his crooked ear and ebony hair silky in Ubbe's grasp.

Ivar's lips. Forbidden and spicy.

They share Safi, and Safi shares them.


	2. Deep Blue Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Well it did take me longer than expected. Oh well. Enjoy!

When he wakes up, Ubbe is gone.  All that remains is the gentle curve of Safi’s body and a peculiar bitterness on Ivar’s lips.   
  


* * *

  
  
Ubbe’s head feels groggy for days, a cup of ale too much he cannot shake the morning after, a foggy veil hiding the sea.  He carries on mindlessly, goes through the motions with distinct lack of enthusiasm, avoids dining in the great Hall, avoids the town in general.  Not that anybody notices, too preoccupied with themselves, his mother's jealous glares in Safi’s direction, Safi tending to his tasks, Ivar’s eyes devouring the boy.  His younger brothers tag along on his walks through the forest, jest and joke and spare oblivious to his silence, the town bustles with energy, life goes on.   
  
Björn plops down besides him on the damp forest floor, Ubbe barely glances his way.  He can feel it coming, the conversation he doesn't want to have, not with Björn, not with anybody really, himself included.  Björn is too much like their father though, with his hawkish eyes on everyone around him, and he has seen Ubbe.   
  
“You are no fun like this,”  he begins.  Ubbe refuses to look at him, stubbornly watching his younger brothers grapple.  “All trapped in your head, like you're not even there.  Trouble with Margrethe? ”   
  
Hvisterk takes the upper hand, captures his younger brother in a headlock.  Last time Ubbe has fucked Margrethe has been like everything else these past days:  going through the motions.  The twig between his fingers snaps and he chucks it to the floor.   
  
“No,” comes his dry answer.   
  
Björn nods, sprawls his legs, leans against the trunk to close his eyes and breathe the brisk air.   
  
“It smells like rain,”  he comments almost absently, but Ubbe knows better.  “Father always said rain is no good this time of the year, ruins the crops.  Tell me is she pretty? ”   
  
Thunder rolls, the fog clears and Ubbe regrets it right away as he falls into the muddled sea of thoughts.  They are everywhere in his head, in his mouth, in his lungs, but the memories don't belong there, not those memories.  They should be of Safi’s lying hands and long lashes, of his spicy taste and supple noises, his bronze skin burning under Ubbe’s hands.   
  
Yet when he hears the word pretty all that consumes him are eyes of piercing blue.  A laugh just as cruel as fulfilling, the crook of a mocking mouth that felt just as sharp against his as it looked.  The heat of the memory crawls up Ubbe’s throat, tightens and refuses to let go when the realisation comes crashing down upon him, pulls his limbs into the depths.   
  
His brothers fall and roll in the dead leaves, the first wet drop landing on Ubbe’s forearm as he struggles to suck in a breath.  Björn is waiting, watching out of the corner of his squinted eyes as Ubbe dreads the words on the tip of his tongue.   
  
“The prettiest.”   
  
And Ubbe is drowning.   
  


* * *

  
  
“So.  Who is she? ” Ubbe’s eyes snap up to meet his brothers smirk and all Ivar’s does is shrug with feigned nonchalance. “ Björn is a talker,”  he adds with amusement in his voice.  “And you are my brother, I am allowed to worry, no?”   
  
There it is again, the taunting smile Ubbe want so desperately to punch off Ivar’s face.  Or kiss.  He is a bit confused about that lately, and though his belly flutters warm he experiences the urge to empty the contents of his stomach.  Not that there would be plenty.  He is not much of a regular eater lately.   
  
He rips his eyes away, shoves a spoonful of thick broth into his mouth.  There is no woman, but Ivar doesn't identify that.  In a sick way, Ubbe revels in that fact.   
  
“Why should I tell you.  You'll make her life living hell. ”   
  
Ivar grins around the piece of bread he puts in his mouth, blue eyes dancing in the faint light.  “If I must.”   
  
Safi leans between them, sets a plate of meat next to Ubbe’s broth and his spicy fragrance draws up memories of things they do not talk about.  When Ubbe looks up there is a faint smile on those soft lips, and for a moment his spirits lift, his head clears, his appetite returns.  His gaze sharpens as it travels up, zeroes in on Safi’s opaque eyes with a sobering realisation.   
  
They are dancing too.   
  
Safi pulls back to slip away into the darkness, Ivar’s hand slides off his slave's thigh and winks.  Ubbe asks himself what kind of demons he is dancing with and dreads the answer.

* * *

  
  
In the early hours of the morning, Ivar’s fury had already echoed, a crashing pot followed by a drove of slaves hurrying out of the room with their eyes wide with fear. A shouting match between Aslaug and Ivar had ensued, half an hour of relentless rage Ubbe and Hvisterk endured before they'd had enough and dragged themselves outside into the morning mist to lay down in the dewy grass at the roots of a tree.  
  
When his eyes flicker open, it's sun out and he's in the shadow of a leafy crown. He glances at a snoring Hvisterk and decides to venture down the small hill and into the town on his own, walks around for a bit without goal nor purpose. He comes across Margrethe who bats her lashes and smiles from a distance. He doesn't smile back. Between yesterday's festivities and Ivar’s morning outburst, he is too exhausted to pretend. His headache starts pulsing behind his forehead, and Ubbe flees the town center. Too much noise, too many people, absolutely no desire to even try today.  
  
He's drawn to the bay just outside of town, has only a two minute walk away when he spots a familiar figure standing on the edge of the water. Safi, with his increasingly fading red robe and a big basket under his arm. He is staring out to the sea as if there was something he desired out there, melancholy wafting over to Ubbe with the next breeze that tumbles the boys raven locks. Ubbe follows the gaze, finds himself overlooking the grey sea in quite the same manner.  
  
“I miss home,” Safi breaks the silence meekly.  
  
Discomfort rumbles in Ubbe’s stomach.“This is your home now.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
The waves crash, come and go steadily. Ubbe imagines Safi has errands to run, but none of them budge. It must be the first time Safi takes a moment like this ever since he arrived, Ubbe can carry it fragile in the palm of his hand.  
  
“It's a bad day. Ivar is hurting, does not desire me in the house.” At that Ubbe looks over, and when Safi turns his head the breath sticks to his throat. There's a black and blue mark swolen on Safi’s left cheek, the whites of his mournful eye an ugly red. Immediately Ubbe’s thoughts jump to his mother, her contained rage, her jealousy, and Safi seemingly reads his mind. “It wasn't her.”  
  
Dread drops into the pit of Ubbe stomach, a kind of uncontrollable panic spreading. He knows it's visible, cannot help himself. His hand rises on its own accord to brush ginger fingertips over the mark, as if to check the reality of the situation, all the while Safi’s lids flutter close in silent acceptance. Sure Ivar had been violent before, but not like this, not mindlessly and visible, not to soft and pliable Safi.  
  
In the back of his mind, Ubbe fears Ivar may grow tired of his toy after all.  
  
Safi’s grip on the woven basket tightened, his lip quivering with a shuddering breath. “You said you wouldn't let it happen again.”  
  
“I did. Forgive me.”  
  
Safi startles away from Ubbe’s gentle touch, covers his mouth with his hand as if regretting his words. There's a hint of panic in the crease of his brows, Ubbe believes it to be the first time he sees such turmoil in those dark eyes. If only for a moment they cant up to him, big, warm and lost, and then the moment slips away like quicksand and the calm softness returns. With his efficient and elegant steps, Safi walks past Ubbe direction town.  
  
“I have to go, Ivar needs me,” he says in passing.  
  
Ubbe stares after him in bewilderment. “I thought he didn't want you around!” he calls.  
  
Safi keeps on walking, simply angles his body towards Ubbe. There's a smile caught onto his lips, tired and full of affection.  
  
“It's just a bad day,” he calls back albeit softer.  
  
Ubbe watches Safi’s back as it grows distant, squinting at the sunlight as it peeks from the clouds. His mouth is parchment, his temples a cluster of pain, his chest too tight for his lungs. Safi walks back to Kattegatt with the grace of springs last flowers in the first snowflakes of winter, a boy devoted to his God of death until his dying breath. A pang of jealousy hits Ubbe, mingled with that strange sensation that makes bile rise in his throat.  
  
They had shared Ivar, and Ivar shared them.  
  
It's a bad day indeed.  
  


* * *

  
  
“You should sulk less,”  Björn tells him one day.  “Do more.”   
  
Ubbe shouldn't, but he takes the damn advice.  It's all he's got.

* * *

  
  
“What do you want.”   
  
A cruel laugh escapes Ivar, a cackle worth a deceiving God.  He jerks his head, visibly amused, and as sudden as the glee comes the seriousness when he cants his head sideways.   
  
“No, no Ubbe.  What do you want,”  he hisses.   
  
Ubbe knows at that moment, how far Ivar is willing to push this game.  Because what his brother wants is what he always wants:  bend the world to his will.  He knows someone will pay the price, nudges the pieces of the puzzle for somebody else to take the fall, wants Ubbe to submit to his terms.  If Safi is the key to holding Ubbe’s sanity in his balled fist, then so be it.   
  
Little does Ivar suspect how twisted Ubbe’s desires genuinely are.   
  


* * *

  
  
It's all in a haze again, the heat, the bodies, Safi’s serviable hands and Ivar’s piercing gaze.  Ubbe is ravenous, he takes and takes until the boy cannot give anymore, and then he turns to Ivar and takes some more.   
  
They pull apart, lips wet with spit and Ubbe’s pants hot between them, and all Ivar does is grin.   
  
“Well, it was about time, brother,”  he says.   
  
Safi’s hands stroke over his back, caress down his spine, follow the lines of his shuddering muscles with gentle precision and cut deeper than Ivar’s words ever could.  This will be their downfall, drowning in the thunderous applause of a raging storm.  It's worth it.  It's fucking worth it.   
  
Ubbe leans forward for another kiss, Ivar’s lips like sharpened blades on his own.   
  
The blue abyss calls.  The pieces fall into place.   
  


* * *

  
  
It happens too many times to count.  The nightly craze and morning confusion.  Ubbe always leaves before the events sink in, before Ivar or Safi can wake and make it all real.   
  
Sometimes Björn winks at him and throws an ominous, “Is she pretty? ” his way.   
  
Ubbe’s gaze skids onto a passing Safi once and all that crosses Björn’s face is a fleeting confusion before he gives a satisfied and admitedly smug nod.   
  
“Very pretty indeed,”  he comments and Hvitserk snorts.   
  
Ubbe ignores his brothers, but he cannot ignore the heat of his mother's glare on the back of his head.  He pushes his plate away, appetite withering under the scrutiny.

* * *

  
  
Ubbe drowns, until he doesn't know he's drowning anymore.

* * *

  
  
A cool rag on his forehead, exhale scorching in his throat.  Ubbe is floating, manages to squint open his eyes.  To his minor surprise, instead of one of his slave girls, it is Safi tending to him with gentle hands.  The boy's precious eyes fall onto Ubbe, read his pale face.   
  
“Ivar?”  The tone in his voice slips through his tired fingers, needy and raspy.   
  
Safi shakes his head softly, Ubbe’s stomach sinking.  “Björn,”  he corrects.  “Ivar won't talk to me.  Thinks I've cursed you. ”   
  
The fever draws a sheen of sticky sweat over Ubbe’s forehead the moment Safi stops his ministrations and makes for heavy limbs.  Ubbe thinks he's never felt so weak in his life, even more so when the golden glow of Safi’s smooth cheekbones flickers in the candlelight.   
  
“This is a dream,” Ubbe rasps. “ It must be. ”   
  
A strange stillness takes over Safi’s body then, hands folded in his lap, head bowed, face empty.  “It'll be over soon,”  he says softly.   
  
Ubbe catches a glimpse of the black and blue marks disappearing under Safi’s robes and recognizes the words to be true.  Safi breaks out of his daze, movements gentle as ever, though the exhaustion is starting to show in the bags under his eyes.   
  
Safi is frayed on the edge.  Ubbe seizes the boys thinning wrist and when he circles his own fingers around it, it hits him how bony they have become.  Ivar is grinding them down, an ocean crashing against the rocks until the cliff collapses.  Through his sickness, fresh resolve breathes air into Ubbe’s lungs.   
  
When he drags himself to the high table of the great hall with new-found focus in his poised body, the room turns only a notch quieter.  He sneers as he passes his mother's judging eyes and his steps bypass his seat next to her in favor of a spot on the lowly benches besides Björn.  Ivar’s glare is glowing, Ubbe glares right back.   
  
With a smirk, Björn pushes his plate under Ubbe’s nose, and Ubbe eats.   
  
Though it may be too late, Ubbe will be damned if he doesn't try.


	3. Chapter 3

An inexplicable force draws the prince to him, Safi knows. He may not seem like much, with his wide eyes and delicate hands, but if there is one thing he’s had practice in it is to read a man’s deepest desires. So when he identifies those electric blues on him, Safi does everything in his power to please. Anything to be on a important man’s good side. The boy has long found out what is best for survival.

“You keep me alive,” Ivar had mumbled into Safi’s gentle hands once, deep in the night when truth always seems lighter.

Safi had thought of Aslaug’s snake eyes of jealousy and answered, “You too, Ivar.”

And that is their way, stolen moments in the berth of flickering lights, Ivar taking even as he believes he is given. Safi let’s him believe, weaves a web of tender deceit for a prince that knows no other affection. He has to. Such remains his way of life, always has been.

There is but one issue to this whole affair.

Somewhere along the way, Safi starts to drown.

 

* * *

 

It is working, he realises with quiet horror as he lays sprawled on the dirt floor, twisting a hand wet with blood from his pulsing lips. Copper in his mouth, the mother queen’s enraged yells above him, crushed by Ivar’s feral one’s. As the ringing in his ears subsidises, Safi is swallowed by an inexplicable sense of pride and terror.

A fist around his arm, an urged word not quite an order, thin lines around agitated eyes. The elder, Safi rummages his mind for a name when it falls onto his lap like an old memory awash.

Ubbe.

“Go.”

Safi hauls himself up and stumbles out of the mess of his own making. The affronting shouts echo in the chamber of his head and the beast devouring him fuses with the one standing over him in protection.

 

* * *

 

He sees Ivar’s eyes on Ubbe and Ubbe’s eyes on him, the exotic boy, and knows what to do. That evening he crawls into his masters lap like a good pet, cradles Ivar face and bats his eyelashes.

“You want to share, yes?”

Safi pretends he does not revel in the spark lighting a flicker of a smile on Ivar’s lips. He pretends to be the broken, vulnerable boy he is believed to be, taken advantage of. It is what he tells himself, to smother that inkling of warmth that threatens to spill over him. It would only be burning oil eating away his skin.

Ivar pulls him closer, nips at Safi’s dark skin. “So smart, aren’t you,” he murmurs into Safi’s collarbone. “See everything, hear everything. They don’t fathom what they’re missing, those men out there who would cut you right open for being my depraved little bitch.”

A shiver runs down Safi’s spine. It has been a while since Ivar has made the allusion of a threat and yet Safi is assured he can push a little more. So he pulls back and beams right at Ivar with a toothy grin.

“You want to share Ubbe, yes?” he repeats with all the glee in the world.

Ivar face contorts into a mask of fury and passion, lips crashing together with a craving Safi can taste raspy on the tip of his tongue. Ivar takes like the storms did back home, with great winds and leaving scratches on your skin, and Safi recognizes that as a yes.

It’s always crucial to be on a prince’s good side, but better to be on two.

 

* * *

 

 

A bird caged behind bars of his own making. That is the situation he finds himself in, when he finds Ivar’s curling hot palms too much to resist. At the rare times when he spends the night with the other slaves in the stables, Safi closes his eyes and prays to Allah to liberate him from this cursed loyalty.

 

* * *

 

 

Ubbe is different. When he takes Safi, the boy feels less like he is ripping apart. It’s a twisted thing between them, and when the brothers lips meet in a frenzied kiss Safi can not feign any surprise.

A flicker of malevolent delight pumps in his chest though, predicting bad omens for the three of them.

 

* * *

 

There's a shift in the air the day Safi passes a gathering of warriors and catches Björn’s toothy smile. He pretends not to notice when the man peels off to trail after him, all broad shoulders and unmistakable confidence, pulls up next to the slave with a watchful gaze roaming the streets of Kattegat. It is transparent he is watching out for the other brothers, or anybody that cultivated maybe a tad bit too much loyalty for them.

“Anything you want to share, huh? Slave.” That last word is the prodding of a man more curious than he admits, a provocation meant to aggravate Safi. But Safi knows what he is, always has been, and his face remains stoic even as Björn pushes on with a faint curl to his lips. “Once upon a time I was a farmer boy. Fetched the water, went fishing, played with the pigs. Look at me now, standing at Odin’s gate with the title of a great warrior, a prince, the firstborn son of the great Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Safi’s eyes snap over. “Where I come from we do not speak of the dead.”

A deep chuckle rings in the depth of Björn’s chest. “Allow me to walk with you.”

It was no request, only the unmistakable Ragnarson confidence. Safi adjusts the basket of soiled clothes on his hip and doesn’t waver off his course, trailing through the crowds with a mountain of a man a few paces behind him until he reached the outskirts of town. At the nearby river, Björn pulls up only a minute later when Safi is already scrubbing clothes in the freezing fresh water.

“Ivar will know,” Safi mutters between two scrubs.

Björn squints at the blinding greyish skies. “No one saw us.”

“He will know,” the boy only responds with certainty.

Björn hums. “He always seems to, doesn’t he?” There is a nonchalance in his voice none of them can afford.

The water splashes, burns cold on Safi’s raw knuckles. In the distance the wind rises, a bird caws, and Björn breathes the earthy smell of a dawning winter. Suddenly the tall man squats down, breathes into Safi’s cheek until the boy turns his attention away from the damn dirty laundry.

“Have you ever known the life of a free man?”

Safi breathes through his nose, keeps his eyes steady. “At what price.”

Björn shines with the implacable intensity of a righteous prophet willing to curve space and time back as it should be. Safi can discern it vibrating in the marrow of his bones. There is no greater rift between conviction and fate than the one between Ivar and Björn, or the one of the piece of clothing slipping from Safi’s grasp to follow the steady stream of the river. Björn twists his lip up and growls the words.

“Make me king.”

Safi’s eyes grow wide enough to engulf Björn, and the spider stretches another yarn of silk across his web.

 

* * *

 

 

Ivar has a sixth sense it seems, feels the wave coming without precisely comprehending what it is yet. It drives him utterly mad and guides his hand on bad days, when bones grow brittle and patience wears thin. Safi is familiar with violence, remembers the Harem’s keeper beating the living daylights out of him whenever a client expressed displeasure at the services provided, but they were at no time the absolutely senseless beatings Ivar distributed.  
  
These seemed to come from a far more dreadful place, deep within.   
  
Safi endures it, his facade of loyalty never wavering even as he mourns what they had once shared. He’s scratching the surface and it breaks under Ubbe’s presence as he catches the boy daydreaming by the sea.   
  
“You said it wouldn’t happen again,” he says, and means he does not know how long he will last.   
  
“I did. Forgive me.”   
  
It has been a while since Safi has heard these words. He may have, in fact, never heard them at all. Abruptly he is aware of the reason why Ubbe is different. Ubbe genuinely cares. Who would have known one of those cursed brothers was cursed with a golden heart.   
  
Safi already griefs the moment he would break it.   
  
Instead, he puts a quick end to the last few words they exchange and turns to leave, does his best to keep his shoulders straight even as sobs racket his body. When he reaches the town, the harsh wind has long dried his tears.


End file.
